Shadows Cross, Never Bleed
by Saloma-Kiwi
Summary: Rheia enters Skyrim to join the College, but gets sidetracked with the Thieves' Guild. It becomes apparent that while the Assassins and Thieves may have an arrangement, the two were never meant to work in close quarters. When the Brotherhood and the Guild find it necessary to do just that, it is sure that chaos will ensue. (Connected to 'Of Merit and Poultry' Valasca is Listener)
1. Strange Company

It was probably the heady rush of escaping both execution and not-so-mythical dragonfire, but Rheia swore that skull was watching her recover breath.

Perched on a narrow, black altar, clean ivory surrounded by dried mountain flowers, its white grin gleaming in the torchlight, it watched with a hollow gaze. Yet, the steady stare did not raise hairs on the back of her neck any more than that of her Imperial companion—she glanced over to find him still scouting ahead—then settled on the skull again.

It was _definitely_ the adrenaline affecting her judgment when it occurred to her that the skull's gaze was somewhat imploring.

Rheia chanced a glance back to the soldier again. He was peering out of the cave's opening. Without another thought or logical interruption, she scooped the skull off its perch and into her satchel, and joined her companion at the mouth of the cavern, eyes on the sky.

Adrenaline's effect on cognitive ability could rival skooma: the skull's name was Yorick.

* * *

"How do I get myself into these messes, Yorick?" the Breton groaned, lake-water dripping off her leathers to the grassy shore. She gripped the end of a steel-tipped arrow in her hand, the head buried in the ankle of her boot, and, incidentally, the skin and sinew of _her_ ankle. It shot burning spikes of pain through her leg, but it was nothing to the icy fingers of the wind piercing the water on her face. Divines, she _hated_ the cold.

The skull, tucked safely in the satchel at her side, did not reply. It never did. Though, sometimes, Rheia imagined suitable answers to her thoughts and complaints.

This time, he told her: "Shady dealings are like damnation: once you're in, you can't get out."

"Just because I ran skooma for a few months to pay for passage to Skyrim—"

"And yet, instead of going to the college like you planned, you're here trying to break into a honey farm for a guild of thieves." Little bugger always knew where to hit.

She snapped the shaft in half and pushed what remained into and out the rest of her leg, hissing through her teeth, a simple restoration spell ready at her fingertips when her vision whitened at the edges from pain. "I still want to train, but I need gold for travel, and my skills—" She tried to stifle her scream when the arrow finally came free, and pressed her hands immediately over the wound, pouring every ounce of energy she had into a warm, gentle healing spell. Her flesh prickled as it knitted back together, and a pins-and-needles sensation rushed as the blood-flow returned to normal.

Rheia made a sopping flop onto her back, grass tickling her neck as she tugged off her hood.

"Those deviant skills got you this far—it's really no wonder you're pursuing them."

Sarcastic bastard.

* * *

"What happened to your face?"

Well, she couldn't exactly say 'a skooma deal went bad, and this happened when I tried to get my money', so Rheia told the child: "Got in a fight with a Khajit. They have a sort of unfair advantage in a fistfight."

"Can I touch it?"

Just as she was imagining Yorick's laughter, there came a chuckling from the shadows. A dark elf loitered in the lee of a shop.

Rheia bent double to level her head with the girl's, and the child felt the four pale, puckered scars that crossed her lips, young blue eyes dancing with awed excitement.

"For a bit of gold, we could keep that kind of scuffle from happening again," the elf offered, amusement still playing on her lips.

"She's a mercenary," said the girl, bouncing on her heels, "and lots of fun to watch—she's so good at being quiet."

The elf inclined her head. "Stealth and shadow are my arts—for the right price, I shall make great art for you."

"Now that's the best come-on I've ever heard. Even better than the servants of Dibella."

The mercenary shrugged. "Whatever works."

"Just what is the price…?"

"Janessa." She fixed the little girl under her ruby gaze. Rheia had quite forgotten about the child: surely business would bore her. "Run along, now, Lucia."

* * *

It was a lucrative partnership. Where Rheia's skill in stealth depended upon being seen and forgotten, Janessa would disappear from even the Breton's sight, remaining completely masked in the shadows.

The dark elf quite enjoyed slinking from Rheia's shadow and reappearing in front of her whenever they grew bored during travel. She tried not to dwell on how easily Janessa could put that sword or dagger through her chest on any such occasion.

Yorick liked to remind her at camp.

* * *

"So." Janessa nodded toward where Rheia crouched just off the dusty road, mending the burned skin of her fingers. "The College of Winterhold, then."

The Breton shook her head in the affirmative. "And soon, I hope. I need to refine this—it takes too long."

"Well, the flames are impressive; watching a troll burn is always satisfying." She leaned against the trunk of a tree, smile playing on her lips.

Rheia chuckled. "When I'm not burning myself with them."

"I didn't say they were perfect."

* * *

There was a tome lying just feet away, near one of the bandit's bedrolls, the mark of healing etched into the cover.

"I wouldn't suggest it."

_Damn it. Yorick! Shut up._

"They can't hear me."

_Yorick_.

She crept closer, slinking against the wall, tunic catching on the granite surface. There was a gurgle some way ahead—she could see Janessa's shadow play on the wall in the torchlight, a bandit's shadow sinking heavily before her.

Footsteps behind as the watch returned. But her hand was brushing the cover so close and…

_Thwip_.

Rheia rolled to the side, body tucked protectively around the tome as the bandit charged ahead, arrow's shaft protruding from his shoulder. "Sound the ala—"

But he didn't see Janessa melt out of the shadows, halting his axe mid-swing, her blade thrusting in a neat arc. The human's head hit the ground with a sickening, soppy thump, and rolled past the Breton's still-crouched form.

Yorick was laughing even before the dark elf turned a disapproving look their way, the sound of a half-dozen pairs of boots converging on their position.

* * *

Rheia poured over the book, propped on a stone as she tried a quick repair of her leather jerkin, tugging a large needle with a flick of her wrist. Janessa deliberately did not face her while wrapping a gash on her leg with the cleanest linen in their possession. She dripped some extra salve near the deepest edge, growling as she tied it off as tight as could be borne.

"On the bright side, next time I'll be able to heal you like I do my injuries." The mage clipped the thick thread, not removing her eyes from the tome.

"There won't be a next time, because you'll save the looting for _after_ the bandits are dead." Janessa strapped her greave back over the bandaged calf.

"Right, right."

"You have no idea what I just said." The dark elf glared to where Rheia was bent over the pages, hands unmoving.

"Hm?"

This earned an empty bottle to the face.

* * *

There was a next time, of course, for different reasons: the pair stumbled into someone else's ambush.

Thalmor often marched prisoners across the plains to their forts in the north—for torture, it was widely known. Rheia was no friend of the Stormcloaks, but neither did she approve of the Thalmor's power; she wouldn't wish the bastards on her worst enemy. This led to cutting the bonds of men she would have otherwise turned over to Imperial officers, just to spite the Dominion.

This time, however, another pair had the same idea, and a normally clean skirmish became, in Yorick's words, a cluster-fuck.

As Janessa crept behind the last Thalmor mage, knife drawn, he dropped, burbling into the dusty road, the black shaft of an arrow protruding from his throat.

It was too late to move when the others whipped around (_robes flapping dramatically on the breeze—bastards_) to investigate the sound, and there was certainly no hope of explaining that she couldn't have killed him with that arrow herself.

The spells began flying. Fireballs, flames, slivers of ice that clashed and melted into the dirt of the road. A blur of motley and the glint of a knife. Rheia could hardly focus enough to keep a healing aura to minimize damage as she swung her mage, catching a Thalmor across his unarmored shoulder. The satisfying crack of bone, crackling of fire on the breeze, and—singing? Singing.

Janessa plunged her blade into the Thalmor's back even as he fumbled a healing spell to his shattered shoulder, and sank into the dampened soil.

The spray of blood, a whistle, a whir—

"_KRII_."

It was a tremor through the air, a whisper, a growl carried on the wind, and without comprehension, Rheia's blood ran cold with the word's meaning.

But it was not for her: the final mage collapsed, drained, onto the road, a woman standing over him, all shrouded in black and a red that might have simply been fine dye or fresh blood, an arrow clasped between her gloved fingers. Gold eyes glinted from the depths the black hood. A fool grinned behind her, trembling with the adrenaline of a fresh kill.

This was Rheia's first glimpse of the Listener to the Dark Brotherhood.

Let us say the wounded thief and her bleeding companion did not leave the best impression.


	2. The Thievery-Magick Conflict

"That was embarrassing," Janessa grunted, flexing her newly-healed arm—just as Rheia had promised before, no salves necessary. The Assassins, fortunately, slipped away almost before the dust and tang of blood had time to settle.

Rheia shrugged. "If we're lucky, we won't run across them again." She patted down the blood-soaked robes of the Thalmor first to fall. "I have a feeling they'd be serious trouble even if they weren't Brotherhood." A pleased grin crept across her features, stretching the scars on her lips when the searched yielded a few septims.

"Dragonborn."

Rheia tucked the coins into a pouch in the folds of her armor. "Hm?"

Janessa shook her head. "The woman—she Shouted. The Dragonborn we've been hearing about has apparently caught the attention of the Assassins."

The Breton frowned. "Then we'll just have to stay out of their way, and avoid pissing off anyone rich enough to pay them." She shrugged, shuffling to the next corpse. "Simple enough." Another gleaming pile of coins. "Rich bastards." Rheia passed these to the dark elf, satisfying clinks in a gloved fist.

"Altmer."

Rheia shrugged. "On the whole, maybe, but in this case it might just be that they were Thal—"

"No. The Assassin—the _Dragonborn_ Assassin. She was a high elf." Janessa's gaze roamed the road, a careful eye on the horizon. "She freed the Stormcloak prisoner in the confusion; he's heading toward Winterhold. Why?"

"If she's Dragonborn, the Nords probably support her—treat her like a hero. You've heard the songs already." The mage grunted, tugging the corpse off the road, kicking up dust in her wake. "Even if she's part of the Brotherhood, it's probably nice to know somebody appreciates your dragon-slaying abilities, finds you heroic for a change. Can't imagine she's sympathetic to the cause—just the people. Help me out?"

The Dunmer shook her head, but moved to drag the first body into the ditch with its companion.

"This one has a nice dagger on him—better than steel." Rheia raised it to the light, curved blade gleaming. The golden, winged fashion of the hilt was not to the thief's taste, exactly, and her mace served her fine. "Interested?"

Janessa examined it, tugging the piece gently from Rheia's fingers. "Indeed," she agreed. "Scabbard?"

"A little bloody, but nothing we can't fix."

* * *

The College of Winterhold was grander than Rheia imagined. Towering to the snow-kissed sky, an impressive tower rising out of an impossible chasm. It was amazing; it was beautiful; it was everything she imagined; it was—

"Kind of a ruin."

_Yorick!_

"Look at this village—Oblivion, look at the bridge! Crumbled walls, disrepair… this place is a relic. Trust me—I spent the last century surrounded by relics."

_The teachings offered are what count, and you can't deny that whatever the age or disrepair, it's an impressive structure._

"An impressive wreck."

_Keep your jaw shut or I'll roll you down the chasm._

Rheia tugged her fur-lined hood closer over her cheeks. The wind howled around the stones of the College, but the cold could not dampen her spirits.

Janessa, face barely visible for the cowl drawn around her mouth and nose, nodded toward the inn. "I'll take a room until you need me."

"I—are you sure?" Rheia glanced toward the College, then back.

Those ruby eyes were laughing at her. "Do I look like I have an affinity for magic?" She shook her head. "Go. I have a feeling you'll get into trouble shortly."

"I'll send word," Rheia agreed. She turned to the College. She glanced back—Janessa was already in the relative safety of the inn's porch. "Thank you."

The dark elf shrugged, amusement coloring her voice, "Don't thank me, thank your coin."

* * *

When next they met, Rheia was wrapped in warm, fur-lined mage robes, a satchel slung over her shoulder, the scars over her mouth distorting her scowl into a sneer. Janessa was on her feet immediately, inn's specialty stew forgotten.

"What is it?"

Rheia drew a crumpled parchment from her pocket and slapped it on the table. "From the Guild. 'Come immediately.' I just get settled and they think they can snap their fingers and beckon me back."

"What will you do?" Janessa asked just as Yorrick—voice muffled—said: "And yet you're going anyway."

Rheia shook her bag for good measure while the dark elf's eyes were fixed on the note. "Fortunately we located a strange artefact that will occupy most of the senor mages' time—not much left for training."

"I can be ready immediately."

* * *

The road to Riften was long; it would be days before the pair saw the end of the wretched snow drifts and pressing flurries. Wintry silence was comfortable, but when you hadn't seen your travelling companion (a fixture you'd come to expect) for weeks…

"So, did you learn anything useful in Winterhold?"

Wolves howled in the distance.

Rheia grinned, a bolt of fire closed in her fist. "Would you like a demonstration?"

* * *

The Breton's breath puffed and dissipated in white, misty bursts, cold sinking into her bones despite the fur-lined hood she wore with her Thieves' Guild armor.

"I don't like it," Janessa grumbled again.

"Careful, or I might start thinking you'll miss me more than your income."

The dark elf shook her head. "There's no reason I can't come with you. It's not official business; there'll be no secrets for me to overhear."

"We can slip in and out no problem—I'm not that fond of the old bastard, but he's my superior, and it's a good idea to have someone cover the exit."

Janessa's eyes glinted from her cowl. "Do what you must, but I don't agree."

"You rarely do."

"_Ladies_, if you're done bickering, can we get to the task at hand?" Mercer's permanent scowl was deeper than Rheia had seen it since the initial mention of Karliah.

The mage looked to Janessa. Their eyes met, and the mercenary nodded, heading to the lee of a nearby stone for cover.

"Let's go."

* * *

Mercer emerged from the tomb alone, shouting for help. "She's killed her—she's killed her!"

Janessa's blood ran cold, but she did not move from the shadow of the cairn.

"Elf! Get out here, I need help!" The thief approached the stone she had used for cover before, feet shifting silently through the snow. A blade caught the scant moonlight in his hand.

She was no fool. Mercer did not want any witnesses: no doubt in Janessa's mind he had slaughtered Rheia with the very same blade. She drew her bow and nocked an arrow, ruby eyes sighting through flurries of snow at Mercer's leather-clad back.

She would paint the snow with his blood.

The arrow buried itself in the thief's shoulder-blade.

_"Damn it_," he hissed, leaning behind the stone, out of her sight.

Painful, but not fatal. Precisely what Janessa had been counting on.

Fleet and silent of foot, the elf crept across the snow, climbed the smooth face of the snow-swept stone. A dagger of gold and moonstone glinted in her hand, catching what little light there was this grey night. She peered over the edge of the stone.

Mercer was gone.

Without a second thought, Janessa was nestled in the lee of the stone, crouched in its shadow, back protected by the unyielding rock. Her saber was immediately free of its scabbard.

He would not abandon his target now, she was sure.

"You think you can hide from a Nightingale?"

There were no tracks in the snow to follow, save the ones Mercer had made during his initial search. He must have retraced them, or—

Steel met steel in a resounding crash, softened only by the blanketing snow, carrying no more than a few feet.

"You should have run." Janessa swiped at his side with the dagger, but Mercer leapt back, regardless of the arrow that still protruded from his shoulder.

"I can best you even one-handed, Dunmer."

The click of each parry sounded a rhythm, gave a pattern to break, to follow. Duels were a dance, and that's just the way Janessa liked it.

"I'll bleed you out for killing Rheia."

"That whelp was a waste of talent, anyway. Damn mage." His breath came in gasps that complained of severe cold in heated lungs. Janessa's mouth was covered, breaths safe.

"And yet you slaughtered her from behind—afraid you'd lose?" Her dagger grappled with his, her sword caught the leather at his waist, tore a streak of red, stark against the grey night.

A hiss of pain. "Oh, no—she took Karliah's arrow for me; I just finished the job."

Janessa raised her blade with a growl.

He was gone from sight.

She looked to the stone. It was too far now—the pair had danced away in the scuffle, a trail of ruined snow from the rock to her feet. No cover. No wall for her back against an unseen adversary.

The Dunmer whipped round in a circle, blades extended. A chuckle on the breeze.

A voice at her ear: "Nice try."

Heat distorted the air. Flames rippled across her sin, and an inhuman cry tore from her lips.

It was answered by a pained yowl and the scampering of feet.

The flames spoke in Janessa's ears: a low, thrumming, a heavy, nearly inaudible rush. They cauterized the wound that had opened between her ribs, searing daggers of pain gripping her nerves even as the wound closed. The fire's thrum rose to a deafening roar—and it was gone. A melted puddle of mud and water and her feet, filthy, steam rising to obscure her feet, slush in the immediate radius, and wet footprints that fled toward Windhelm.

Much of her armor was singed or burned away—the cowl gone, trim and lacing of her armor nothing but ash. Janessa stumbled, collapsed in the snow, and grieved a friend.


End file.
